


Nemesis

by Lobelia321



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-29
Updated: 2010-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:26:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lobelia321/pseuds/Lobelia321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are the worst holidays ever.  You're stuck on this island with that cheating Portuguese scum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nemesis

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the summer of 2006, after the World Cup quarter-finals.

This story contains adult content of a sexual  
nature. Do not read if you are under the age of 18. Please also  
note that this website's [Terms of Use ](index.html)apply  
to you, even if you choose not to read them.

Title: Nemesis

 

Author: Lobelia

 

Fandom: Football rps

 

Pairing: Wayne Rooney/Cristiano Ronaldo dos Santos Aveiro. Also  
features Coleen McLoughlin.

 

Rating: 18 (NC-17)

 

Length: c.4,500 words.

 

Warning: Violence. Insulting language.

 

Disclaimer: I do not know any of these people. This is an amateur  
piece of fiction. I am not making any money. The events recounted  
herein never happened. No disrespect is intended; in fact, the  
opposite is true.

 

Notes: Set in the summer of 2006, after the World Cup quarter-finals  
England/Portugal.

 

Thanks to Demelza for initially providing me with the trope of  
'dirty fucking diver'. Thanks to JKR for giving me Dudley Dursley  
to help with inhabiting Wayne's body and mind. Thanks to all the  
excitable men of this world who commented on the 'cheating scum'  
you.tube video; almost every insult in this fic is copied and  
pasted straight from them.

 

This one's for Junalele: thanks for all the encouragement! :-)

 

Pertinent pics at the end.

****

 

Nemesis

 

by Lobelia

So you've had a fight.

A right royal stinker of a row.

Coleen has stomped off, her voice hoarse  
with screaming and crying at the same time. You can't stand her  
voice like that, shrill like a screech-owl; hurts your ears, hurts  
your _brain._ She even pulled the ring off her finger, her  
engagement ring, and threatened to hurl it into the sea, just  
like that time when she chucked it on the street outside your  
Prestbury house.

But in the end, she stuffed the ring into  
her multi-thousand pound designer handbag and marched off.

You're left to stew in your own juices on  
board the _Princesa_, the forty-foot yacht you've hired for  
the duration.

These are the worst holidays ever.

Ever.

You're in the wrong place, at the wrong  
time, and everything has gone even more pear-shaped than it already  
was. The shops are rubbish, and Coleen's only marched off to them  
'cos she's pissed off with you. The food gives you a rash, the  
coke's lukewarm, the sun's too hot and you only have to stand  
around in it for five minutes before you turn red as a prawn.  
The boat makes you want to throw up when it's moving and is stuffy  
when it's not; and although there's a huge flat-screen telly on  
the lower deck, it doesn't get cable or satellite and everything's  
in a language you can't understand. Plus you've got blue-ball  
syndrome 'cos Coleen won't put out as much as you'd like her to  
which is a real bloody pain but that's women for you.

The worst thing, though, the very worst  
by far, the height of worse, is that everywhere you turn and everywhere  
you go, you can never ever get away from _him_.

Every magazine at every news stand seems  
to have a picture of him on the front cover. Every shop at every  
street corner is selling piles of baseball caps with the words  
_Cristiano Ronaldo _embroidered onto them. Every little boy  
runs around with the purple Nr. 17 shirt on, and when you did  
turn on the telly, night before last, what did you see? Some news  
item with some old geezer hanging some sort of medal round the  
neck of, yup, who else?

When Coleen booked this holiday ages ago,  
you didn't even listen properly to the name of the place where  
you were going. Something Quinta, something marina, something  
exclusive-yachting-resort. You always let her sort out that side  
of things. She books the hols, she buys the tickets, you just  
go along.

Who was to know that this particular destination  
for this particular summer was going to be one big fat disaster  
zone?

"Madeira!" you said (but the cases  
were already packed and the cab in the drive). "No way are  
we going to fuckin' Madeira!"

But you were. You're here.

You're stuck on this island with that cheating  
Portuguese scum.

That, and your pulsing erection.

***

Sometimes you're so fuckin' randy, your  
balls turn literally blue. And you're in danger of fuckin' _dying  
_'cos you can't even have a wazz, what with your todger so  
hard and standing-up it could double as Blackpool Tower.

You need to get your rocks off, and you  
need to get them off _now._

That's what Coleen never understands: how  
a bloke just gets so piss hard that he needs to shoot his wad  
_now_.

A girlfriend's supposed to be good for that  
sort of thing. But girls are also a problem. They're a fuckin'  
liability.

"I've got a headache." "I'm  
tired." "It's too late" "It's too hot."  
"It's not the right time." "It's not the right  
place." "I'm on! Liverpool are playing at home."  
"Ouch, careful, Wayney!"

She's always bloody _on_. Big fuckin'  
deal. You know what they say about That Time of the Month: Blowjob  
time. Fun time. No need to run from the painters and decorators.

And you could always do it up the shiter.  
No red shirts there.

Not her, but. Goes all prissy. "Who  
do you take me for, Wayne? Go back to your bloody _prostitutes_,  
if that's what you want, you pervert!"

Coleen won't do any of them other things.  
She'll do a bit of licking around the balls but that's about it.  
She's not going to do any sucking. Let alone swallowing.

All _she _wants to do is to go shopping.

That's girlfriends for you.

Yesterday, you stood in front of the loo,  
stroking your aching dick and thinking, 'Fuck it. Fuck it all.  
I _will _go to a hooker. I'll go to a fuckin' _massage  
parlour_, the best on the island. 'Cos those birds'll do anything.  
And I've got the money for anything. I've got the dosh to pay  
for a fuckin' five-star Premier League service on me cock."

But of course you didn't. You won't. They  
frighten the daylights out of you, these Portuguese girls with  
their big brown eyes and their tangled-up language.

"Wayne?" she yelled. "Are  
you coming?"

"Not bloody likely," you muttered  
and hit the flush.

***

Not only do you have to see his tosspot  
pretty-boy face wherever you turn, but you're also jumpy as fuck  
in case you round a corner and bump into the man himself.

Is that him, far away on that cliff top,  
outlined against the sky? Or that, lying on the bathing towel  
in that little cove you motored past, roasting himself into a  
well-done steak while you huddle in the shade, covered in sun  
block factor 50? Or that tall, long-necked bloke jogging along  
the beach early in the morning when nobody else is about?

You don't tell Coleen that you keep seeing  
him. Or think you keep seeing him. She'll tell you that you're  
raving mad. She's pissed off with you enough as it is. "Will  
you stop going on about that red card? And for the ten thousandth  
time, how was I to know that this place is suddenly such a problem  
for you? Back in December, when I booked this by-the-way very  
exclusive holiday, how was I to know? You were all such great  
mates together. So he cheated you out of your World Cup..."

"He did not cheat me out of my World  
Cup!" you yell. "The cheating sack of shit!"

"Aw, listen to yourself, Wayne. It  
was the ref, I keep telling you. And anyway, we're on holiday  
now, I don't want to keep discussing it."

That's how she talks these days. She's always  
on about _discussing _this or that or something or other.

"Well, I might find me someone who  
is, then!" you yell, and you have no idea why you yell that,  
or even what exactly you mean by it, except that you have a vague  
notion that it's going to drive her up the wall, and sure enough,  
it does.

"All right!" she screeches. "You  
do that, then! You go back to your whores and sluts!" That's  
when she wrenches off her ring. "You're always disrespecting  
me, Wayne! Sometimes I think you think more about that Ronny twat  
than you do about _me!_"

"You fuckin' slag!" you shout  
and you swing out at her though not for real, you'd never hit  
her but she ducks, anyway, and bursts into tears -- you _hate_  
it when she bursts into tears --, and then she gathers her clobber  
together and stuffs her ring into her bag and that's it, you're  
on your own.

The thing is, and you don't even know this  
about yourself: there's a light shining at the bottom of your  
eyes, and it makes your eyes all soft and grey, and she can see  
that light. She sees it all the time.

Life has been a fairy-tale. It's been a  
fairy-tale for close on four years now. It's not been real. The  
yacht, the marina, your cars in the drive, your mansion, your  
heated indoor pool, her £170,000 diamond and platinum engagement  
ring, the limos, the cameras, the ad campaigns. None of it's real.

Coleen's the only thing that's been real.  
When you look at her, you remember what it's like to be real.

But you think you love your fairy-tale,  
and she thinks she loves your fairy-tale, and maybe she really  
does love your fairy-tale best. You'd rather not know, so you  
yell at her and call her 'slag' and fall back on the only other  
reality left in your life.

That's the reality out on the pitch, of  
course.

Nothing could be more real than that.

Except now it's been marred by that wanker's  
face on every Madeiran billboard, and that's another thing you  
don't know about yourself: the depth of it, the need for it, the  
absolute essential necessity for _that _to remain real and  
true.

And how the very centre of you is knotted  
up in it.

Seeing, though, that you're not a chap given  
over to self-reflection, you storm away at the mouth for a bit.  
You yell abuse after Coleen's departing back, you yank your trainers  
off and hurl them to the bottom of the sea -- except that they  
just go _sploosh _somewhat ineffectively and bob to the surface,  
like a pair of shelducks. Bloody expensive they were, too, but  
then, you've got a dozen new pairs downstairs in your cabin.

Well, there's one thing about being left  
on your own, and that is that you now get to wank in peace.

***

Wanking is not the same as getting it.

It's quick and it's predictable, that's  
the good thing about it. It takes you all of two minutes, and  
then you're sitting on the queen-size bed in your cabin, a bog  
roll in one hand and a wad of tissue full of jism in the other.

But it leaves you high and dry and restless  
and wanting more, and within twenty minutes you've got another  
hard-on and nowhere to put it.

Your mobile beeps.

You flip it open. A message from Coleen  
on the voicemail. Her voice is deliberately neutral; she's pretending  
that nothing is wrong. But she's not asking you to join her, either,  
so she's still pissed off. You'll have to buy her something later,  
something funny and expensive.

Maybe she'll let you lick her arse in return.

Fat chance.

You look at your phone display, and you  
scroll down to the 'saved messages' menu.

There are all your text messages, neatly  
displayed in the order of arrival. COL, COL, COL, MUM, COL, COL,  
SVEN, ALEX, COL, COL, ALEX, MUM, COL, COL, COL.

Right at the bottom, there are the two oldest  
saved messages: RONNY and RONNY.

You stare at them and, sure enough, you  
feel the bile build up in your throat.

You lean back against the headboard of the  
queen-size bed, the cabin gently swaying on the waves, and you  
give a yawn.

But people who look bored on the outside  
are not necessarily feeling bored on the inside.

Somehow, your thumb's pressed the button,  
and the text messages pop up on your display.

Message Number 1:

 

HI WAYNE. THANX 4 UR TXT. IS ALL OK NOW YES. WE ARE FREINDS OF  
CUORSE.

Message Number 2:

 

WHY NOT. TELL THEM I AM UR FREIND. AND I LOVE U. SEE U IN MANCHSTRE.

The menu asks you: 'Delete?' But you press  
'no' and stare into space.

You didn't save your own messages, the ones  
you sent. You can't remember what exactly you said, directly after  
the match, and what the 'why not' is about.

And you sure as fuck don't know what that  
line about love is all about.

A joke? A mistake? Coleen's the only one  
you read these out to, and she said, "Aw, Wayney, it means  
nothing. He can't speak proper English, you know that. He just  
means to say 'I like you'. Obviously."

What you suspect, though, is that he knows  
perfectly well what he means and what he means to say, and that  
he typed that line on purpose, to get you riled and rattled. _That_'s  
what brings the bile to your throat. That and nothing else.

'I like you', your arse.

The cunning little gobshite tosser.

***

There's only one thing to do about a stiffie  
that won't go away, and that's to have a cool swim.

You can have a cool swim in the outdoor  
pool, next to the marina of the oh-so-exclusive yachting resort,  
and that is just what you're going to do right now.

The pool's not a real pool. It's a bit of  
fenced-off ocean. There's a slide, and a fountain thingy, and  
a row of umbrellas, and a bar with high bar stools where you can  
get lukewarm cokes.

The barman looks bored as he polishes a  
wine glass. His sunglasses have mirror lenses.

He's the only person there.

It's so hot you're going to die. Maybe that's  
why no one else is here.

On a recliner, at the end of the pool, there's  
somebody's canvas bag.

You do a length, and another length, and  
another length. You dry off in the shade; there's a hot wind and  
you're dry within what feels like seconds. You lie down on one  
of the recliners, and then you turn round on your front because  
your hard-on's back and you don't want the barman to see.

You think, maybe if you had a pee.

There's a pair of small changing rooms behind  
the row of umbrellas. The two doors bear inscriptions that you  
can't read, something foreign, but luckily, there are pictures  
underneath, and you push open the door with the picture of a man  
on it, and you walk into the cool, tiled interior.

Your eyes take two seconds to adjust to  
the dim light but somehow, even before you can see him properly,  
you know who it is.

You know who's in there, at the back of  
the changing room, in front of the set of metal lockers.

"Fuck," you say.

It's a shock to see him there, blood and  
flesh. He's so tall and so there, with nothing on; sporting just  
a naked torso, like yourself, and only a white towel slung round  
his hips.

It's a shock to see him but there's also  
an inevitability to it, like a rock that falls from a very high  
place and in a very long arc: it's got to land some time.

He says, "Oh." He sounds half-surprised,  
and half-not. As if he, too, has been expecting the rock to land.  
"It's you, Wayne." He pronounces it 'Wen'.

The bile shoots up your throat and out of  
your mouth, like a bullet; it rips through you. "What the  
fuck," you say. "What the _fuck _are you doing  
here, Ronny?"

There's a pause. "I am born here,"  
he says. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Either it's dim in the room, or it's dim  
inside your eyes. Either way, his face blurs in front of you,  
his stupid pretty-boy grin, his ear-rings, his hair, his bead  
necklace, such a lady-boy, such a one-trick prick.

"Don't you be cute with me," you  
say; your voice is hoarse with anger. "You better be careful  
around me, mate."

"What?" he says, and he's putting  
on that innocent expression of his but you're not fooled, oh no.  
"We are friends." He pronounces it 'frens'. "I  
thought we are friends."

There's an arrogant half-smile in his voice.  
You recognise that half-smile; you feel it in your blood, whispered  
into your ear, breathed against your skin from behind.

"Friends?" You force out the syllable.  
You try to make it drip with contempt.

"Yes." Still that pretend-innocent  
half-smile. That eyebrow, half-cocked. You've tried to do the  
James-Bond eyebrow; you've never been able to. "I like you,  
Wayne."

"Shut the _fuck _up." He's  
doing it on purpose, you know he is. Dimly, you know this, and  
dimly, you remember what they keep telling you about rising to  
the bait. But this bait is too fuckin' juicy, ripe for the taking,  
how dare he. How _dare _he mess with you! How _dare _he,  
the greasy, slippery Portuguese wanker!

"Shut up," you repeat. "You  
cheating, slimy Portuguese cunt."

A dark expression comes into his eyes. You  
know that expression: it's an expression of cold hate. A string  
of foreign gibberish comes out of his mouth. You don't understand  
a word of it but you don't need to; it's perfectly clear what  
he's saying.

"Fuck _off_!" you yell, and  
even in your own ears you sound like Coleen screeching her head  
off.

He yells something else in gobbledygook  
wog language; it sounds vicious and mean; it's like foreign whiplash.

"And try to learn some of my language,  
why don't you!" you yell.

"_You _learn mine!" he yells  
back, and then more blubbedy-blah, so you nut him good and proper,  
and ow, your head sings with that one, and then you deck him for  
good measure.

He flies back against the row of lockers  
with an almighty crash. He flies kind of far, kind of further  
than you thought he'd fly, shit, you didn't punch him _that  
_hard but no, he's probably up to his usual tricks; the cocky  
git, he's _diving_, he's pretending to flail all over the  
place.

You're onto him, though. You're after him.  
He's slumped against the lockers. He's doubled up a bit but he's  
still on his legs, upright and glaring at you. You smack him back  
against the lockers, metal clanging and the doors left and right  
flapping open and shut, coins spurting out of some of them onto  
the cement floor. You hiss, "fuckin' wankin' tosser."  
You pin him to the locker behind; you thrust yourself right up  
into his personal space; you bar his chest with one arm and grab  
one of his wrists with your free fist; you ram your leg against  
his. He squirms around, like the slimy mongrel that he is, and  
then, as inevitably as the rock thudding to earth, his towel slips  
off and you're pressed against his groin and he's stark naked.

And stark hard.

Hard as a fuckin' flag pole in a wind tunnel.

You jump back. You lash out; you slap his  
face, hard, so hard it burns your palm. "You pervert,"  
you manage to pant, "you fuckin' lady-boy."

And amazingly, he talks back. He looks at  
you, and he's doing that eyebrow-thing, and he says, with his  
todger standing up hard and red -- but you don't want to look  
at that, you don't want to know about that --, he says in that  
low, shit-slow voice of his, "Not lady, I think, eh, Wayne?"

You whack him again, in the face, you don't  
care, where. And then you grab him; you grab his upper arm, so  
hard your nails cut into his skin, and your nails are short so  
it must be pretty damn hard.

"I'm going to give you what you've  
been beggin' for, you cunt, you bitch, you fuckin' piece of pussy,"  
you rasp. You rasp it through a bucketful of harsh, ragged breaths;  
and his breaths are harsh and ragged, too; harsh, ragged and hot  
in your face; and his arm is sweating into your hand.

"Turn round," you snarl, "turn  
round, you fuckin'..."

But he's already turned. You grab him and  
you shove him but he turned before you shoved him, he _turned  
round for you_. He's begging for it, he's gagging for it, he's  
been wanting it for weeks, for months. The filthy scum, the wanker,  
the cry-baby, pretty-baby nob-head. And you're going to give it  
to him. That's right. That's just what he wants, a piece of English  
cock up his filthy arse-hole. Just what you want, Ronny, isn't  
that right, just what you've wanted for weeks. Months. Your English  
cock up his arse, it's just what you've needed. It's what you  
_deserve_.

Your head feels insane. Your fingers are  
doing stuff of their own accord, with fast, feverish movements.  
Your togs are down around your ankles; you shuck them off and  
kick the white towel out of the way. You spit on your palm, lick  
it good, froth it up, big foaming gobs of it. You lather yourself  
up, not that it matters, who cares if you tear him apart, filthy  
fuckin' bugger, you're longing for it, aren't you?

"Yes," he hisses. And, "yes",  
you say. Yes, yes. Oh, fuck, _yes_. So hard and tight, so  
hot, just like the fag pussy he is, only better; oh, this is so  
much better than pussy, so much tighter, so much _filthier_.

You don't have to think about anything else.  
You don't have to look at anybody's eyes or worry if you're doing  
it right or wish for more or long for something else. You don't  
have to wish or long or think; you can just thrust, in a wild,  
hard rhythm, nothing in front of you except a long smooth back,  
a hard nape, rippling muscles, something to brace yourself against.

"Take that, you bastard," you  
gasp; you mean it as a threat but it comes out more as a moan.  
"You take that; just take it..." You slam him up against  
the locker with your cock. Every time you thrust up into him,  
there's a clang of metal and the flapping of doors. He's going  
"hmph" and "oh" and "yes", and something  
in gobbledygook lingo but it doesn't make your bile boil any longer,  
it makes your blood sing.

You notice that he's got one hand down his  
front. At first you think he's protecting himself, like standing  
in the wall during a free kick, but no. He's bringing himself  
off. He's wanking, right there underneath you, on the other side  
of you. The wanker is wanking and going "oh"; he's grinding  
back up against you; he's so slippery now, slithering with sweat.  
His arse cheeks slap against your groin, fuck, and you want to  
hold him still. You want to stop him from doing that but that  
means you've got to take his arm; you've got to touch his arm;  
just a little, and the muscles in his arm are working, up and  
down, in a rhythm with you. You hold onto his arm; you slide your  
hand down his arm, to his wrist. His cock slides against the side  
of your hand, fuck oh fuck.

He turns his head, just a little bit. Just  
so he can reach your arm with his lips and sink his teeth into  
your biceps. And while he's doing that, he looks at you. He can  
only look at you sideways from that position, and you can only  
see one of his eyes. He looks at you out of the corner of that  
one eye. He's still got that look in his eye but you realise,  
through a red haze of lust, that it's not hate at all. It's something  
else altogether.

You grab at his neck with your other hand.  
You grab at the necklace, and it rips, and beads hop and pop all  
over the cement floor.

His mouth is clamped shut on your upper  
arm.

You come.

You shoot your whole load into his shit-hot  
arse. It feels like the jism of a thousand orgasms, stored up  
for years. There's such a lot of it; it doesn't want to end, just  
keeps on pumping out, into the depths of Ronny's arse. It shakes  
you dry, it leaves you high, it makes you moan senseless gibberish  
against the sweat of Ronny's nape.

"Take that," you groan. "Take  
that."

After that, it's hard to step away.

Your breath is all over the place.

You stare at his trembling back.

One last bead rolls across the floor and  
pings against the wall.

Slowly, very slowly, Ronny turns around.

His dick is limp. There's white stuff clinging  
to his pubes.

You stare at his dick, a bit helplessly.  
You don't want to look him in the eye. You blink.

Then you bend down, pick up your shorts  
and pull them on in one quick movement. You swallow, and you make  
yourself hard inside. You do look up at him now, one quick look.  
You hawk, and you spit right into his stupid face. And then, for  
good measure, you spit again; you spit at his pig of a dick, and  
you say, trying to still the trembling in your throat, "Fuckin'  
serves you right. You fuckin' deserved that."

Or something like that. You don't quite  
know what you're saying, actually. There's an aching spot in your  
left rib cage, your eyes are dizzy, maybe you're getting sunstroke.

Ronny, when you finally look at his face  
again, is smiling. He's smiling, the fuckin' cocky bastard, a  
lazy slow smile. And he says, in that slow drawl of his, "And  
you, Wayne. You deserve that, too."

There's a sort of buzzing in your ears,  
and a thumping in your head.

You turn round and lurch towards the door.

The last words you hear, hitting the back  
of your neck from afar, are: "See you in Manchester. Wayne."

You tumble into the dazzling sunshine.

You've won. Fuckin' halleluiah, but you've  
won. You know it. You gave it to him. You stuck it to him, _really_  
stuck it to him.

So why is it that there's this depleted  
hole at the bottom of your stomach? This sinking, slinking feeling?  
This suspicion, this dead certainty, that you've not really won  
at all? That it wasn't a question of victory or revenge. That  
it was a different conquest altogether.

The barman's still there, whistling a disjointed  
tune. By the poolside, your mobile rings.

You hobble to your recliner and dig the  
phone up from underneath your towel, just as it stops ringing.

You look at it. The display bleats at you,  
'ONE message from COL'. The sign pulses on and off, 'saved messages',  
'saved messages', 'saved messages'.

You hurl that phone into the pool water's  
depths.

It sinks like a rock thrown from on high.  
One lone bubble rises to the surface and pops into nothing.

***

THE END

 

Posted on 17 July 2006.

***

 

Some pertinent pics:

The [Quinta  
do Lorde resort](http://www.madeira-web.com/PagesUK/beaches/quinta-lorde.html) is in the east of Madeira:

Wayne and Coleen:

The Incident:  
No pic available at the moment.

The Eyebrow:

Medal in Madeira:  
No pic available at the moment.

Latest in: It has since emerged that Rooney  
is on holiday in St Tropez but, heh, he _is _on a yacht.  
*gg*

 

\----

All original parts of this story: ©  
Lobelia

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[via LJ](http://lobelia321.livejournal.com/482877.html) / [via email](mailto:lobelia40@yahoo.com?subject=) 

url of this page at my niche: http://blithesea.net/lobelia/nemesis.html


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